Catherine McNeil exhibits a look at All Points West that falls under the category "Things Only Models Can Wear." If I tried to sport this, I'd look like a Russian folk dancer at a Grateful Dead show. Which, you know, considering that most people would have been on 'shrooms, wouldn't be such a bad thing.

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I often have dreams in which I’ve discovered some mythical (yet perfectly tangible) location, and the crux of the dream involves my attempt to photograph it despite (inevitably) faulty equipment. Here are the moments in my waking life when this hasn’t been an issue.

Here are the stories we might deliver with great relish while sitting around a campfire in some gloriously remote location. Stories of experiences we’ve had and the people we’ve met along the way. Stories that demand whiskey, or at least a good cup of coffee, to imbue them with authority and bravado.

Steinbeck knows well “when the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man.” Likewise, poet Stephen Dunn understands “...the bright altar of the dashboard, and how far away a car could take him from the need to speak, or to answer.” Springsteen’s oeuvre, some may argue, is dependent upon the propulsive force of a car in motion. In each case, and in every case before or after it: The real locus of adventure is in the road. The hope of an uninterrupted ribbon of asphalt, unspooling from here till forever.